102 THE UNKNOWN GRAVE. Like a ripe apple falling down, When all the friends that bless'd his prime, Like snow-flakes melting in the sea: Or, 'mid the summer of his years, When round him throng'd his children young, When bright eyes gush'd with burning tears, And anguish dwelt on every tongue, Was he cut off, and left behind A widow'd wife, scarce half resign'd? Or, 'mid the sunshine of his spring, Came the swift bolt that dash'd him down; When she, his chosen, blossoming In beauty, deem'd him all her own, And forward look'd to happier years, Than ever bless'd their vale of tears? Question no more, alas!-'tis vain The summer flowers in beauty blow, Then, what is life, when thus we see 1 'Tis doom'd that dust shall mix with dust. What doth it matter then, if thus, We float not on the breath of fame; The soul decays not; freed from earth, And spurning off its bonds of clay, Do good; shun evil; live not thou, Nor Error's siren voice allow To draw thy steps from truth aside : Look to thy journey's end-the grave! And trust in Him whose arm can save. THE RETURN OF FRANCIS THE FIRST FROM CAPTIVITY. · BY MISS JEWSBURY. The restoration of Francis the First to his liberty took place beside the little river Andaye, which divides the kingdoms of France and Spain. The moment his Spanish escort drew up on one side of the river, an equal number of French troops appeared on the opposite bank, and immediately afterwards Francis leaped into the boat which awaited him, and reached the French shore. He then mounted his horse and galloped off at full speed, waving his hand over his head, and crying aloud with a joyful voice, “I am yet a King!" O GLORIOUS is that morning sky! Those vine-clad hills and valleys, lie As yet that sky, ere dimm'd by night, And France exultant see, More glorious than her vine-clad hills, And yet amid the landscape fair On river, vale, and hill; While low sweet sounds that murmur there, And make repose more still. RETURN OF FRANCIS THE FIRST. But hark!—a tumult on the plain! The hope of France, the prize of Spain,- Many a day in dark Madrid Hath he borne the captive's thrall, But now he views, with raptured glance, - Now, o'er the stream, with eager prow, Glad shouts arise! and warrior vows- And helms are doff'd from stately brows, 105 Each Knight and Noble waves his brand, And swears by Heaven and his own right hand, "Revenge! and hate to Spain !" But joy alone is in the glance Of him who treads the turf of France- And now he mounts his gallant steed, 106 RETURN OF FRANCIS THE FIRST. Helm, brand, and banner, gleam around, But heard through all is the monarch's cry, "A King-yet, yet a King!" THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD. BY MRS. HEMANS. THEY grew in beauty, side by side, The same fond mother bent at night One 'midst the forests of the west The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one, One sleeps where southern vines are dress'd He wrapp'd his colours round his breast, |